


Freedom

by yeaka



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 21:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8417257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Peter runs Cape Verde and maybe Neal.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abbeyjewel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbeyjewel/gifts).



> A/N: For my dear abbeyjewel~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own White Collar or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It was easier on the force, where there was a clear line: rules and regulations to keep himself in check. But he gets so much _more_ done this way. Peter Burke is a more effective power in retirement than he ever was with a badge. Now he doesn’t just have officers reporting to him, but almost all of the crime on Cape Verde comes back to him one way or another, and he keeps tight tabs on it, reading justice through the grey areas. Everything he oversees isn’t always _legal_ , but it’s almost always _right_ , and the violent crime rate, at least, has never been so low. The perks aren’t bad either. He gets a mostly quiet life with flickers of excitement, centered in one gorgeous seaside villa with a view to die for. It’s almost always sunny, and he can see clear across the horizon: just blue water and blue sky the entire way. He lives a life of luxury.

And he can spend his mornings on the terrace, sprawled out in a white patio chair with an American newspaper laid out on the table. He flips it to the sport section—live events being the one thing he misses from his former life—and enjoys the morning breeze that ruffles through the pages.

He hasn’t even made it through the first story when he hears the screen door slide back. His ears perk up immediately, always listening, ready, a cop’s instincts still ingrained in him, but he settles a moment later when he recognizes the footsteps headed for him. He’s memorized that gait, like everything about the man he shares his home with. At first, it was to hunt that man down—to catch the one criminal on Cape Verde that Peter couldn’t get a handle on. 

But now Neal Caffrey serves Peter with a smile. He brings a silver tray with a beer can on it and a bowl of strawberries—contrasting things to meet both their tastes. Peter isn’t fooled. Neal’s squirmed his way into Peter’s life too easily, and now he _acts_ like the good little lackey Peter’s told he’ll need to simulate the usual ‘mob boss’ exterior, but he still sees the mischief behind Neal’s impossibly blue eyes. Neal sets the tray down on the little round table. A large umbrella pokes out of the middle of the circle, the canopy blocking just enough of the sun to make reading possible. Neal even pops the beer can open before he holds it over.

Peter takes it out of Neal’s hands with a clipped, “Thank you,” and tries not to marvel at the brush of Neal’s fingers against his. Sometimes Neal turns him twelve again. Neal’s toned and chiseled like a Roman statue, but his hands are still so _soft_ , even after all the evils they’ve done. His hair looks even softer, and Peter forces himself to turn back to his paper.

He expects Neal to head back to the house, but of course, Neal so rarely does what Peter wants of him. Neal sinks down to his knees, the image of it burned into Peter’s peripherals. Neal crawls along the terrace like some feral cat to maneuver around the wooden armrests of the chair, in front of Peter instead, and dips to lay his cheek on Peter’s knees. Peter instantly lowers the paper, giving Neal’s overtly handsome head his full attention, and asks levely, “What are you doing?”

“Sitting,” Neal innocently chirps, with the same tone he always uses to whittle his way deeper into Peter’s life. 

Peter corrects, “You’re _kneeling_. Is there something wrong with my patio furniture?”

“Yes. It doesn’t give you a power trip.” Neal only grins when Peter scowls, and he lifts one elegant hand to lie on Peter’s thigh. He’s in a crisp white button-up and a black waistcoat today, looking not all that different than a butler. The sort that steals livery. Peters lifts a brow, and Neal coos, “C’mon, Peter. We both know how much you enjoy knowing you could have me in prison the second you got bored, why not manifest it? You can’t tell me you don’t like towering above me.”

Of course he does. He likes it _way too much_ , and that’s probably part of the reason he could never make it work with girlfriends. Even before retirement, _Neal Caffrey_ was always on his mind. Now Neal gives Peter’s thigh a light squeeze and slinks his hand away, his face turning to eye the ocean, his cheek still cushioned on Peter’s leg. Peter’s grateful for the conversation ender: he doesn’t want to admit how good Neal really looks at his feet. 

A good fluffing out of the paper, and Peter tries to read again. He really does. He never flies back for games, but he watches them all, and reading up on all the latest insider baseball stories is supposed to be the highlight of his morning. But now he’s got Neal’s beauty radiating beneath him, and even just out of the corner of his eye, that perfectly coiffed chestnut hair is a threat to Peter’s concentration.

When he gives in, he’s annoyed with himself. But he still puts the beer on the table and drops that hand to Neal’s head. Neal leans subtly into the touch, and Peter rakes his fingers through Neal’s thick hair, ruffling it once just to see if his favourite model has anything to say about it. He’s surprised when Neal doesn’t make a fuss, just lets out a contented sigh and relaxes more against Peter’s leg. His presence is oddly reassuring. Definitely eye candy. And unfortunately now Peter knows that he’s fun to _touch_ as well. The rich cologne he wears shouldn’t be so alluring.

But it is, and Peter pets him, stroking back through his perfect hair and giving a light tug here and there, because Neal’s so disobedient and always deserves a little roughness with gentle things. Peter even scratches behind his ear, like a dog Peter used to have years ago back in New York City, but Neal still sighs contentedly. When Peter tugs his hair again, he lets out a soft moan that goes straight to Peter’s groin.

He doesn’t need to know how Neal reacts to having his hair pulled. Peter needs to stop. Instead, he drops the newspaper so he can weave his other hand into Neal’s hair when the first leaves for the table.

Strawberries aren’t really his style, but he’s glad Neal brought them for this. Then he pauses, the first fruit halfway out of the bowl, and wonders if Neal really did plan this. 

It sounds like him. He knows just how irresistible he is. He’s probably caught Peter staring. It would serve him right to be sent away with no breakfast at all.

But Peter’s already half-hard and invested in the morning, so he leans forward in his chair and presents the first strawberry to Neal’s mouth. Neal’s eyes flicker up, giving Neal a smoldering look far too effective for something upside down, and leans in to taste it. 

Of course he doesn’t use his hands. He’s always a brat. He wraps his plush lips around the ripe berry and closes them against Peter’s fingers, teeth chewing the end right off. As soon as it’s in his mouth, he’s tilting to lick the leftover juice off Peter’s skin before Peter can pull away. He didn’t need to know just how skilled Neal’s tongue is. He would’ve assumed it anyway.

Now it’s impossible _not_ to get another strawberry, and Peter feeds Neal again, sickly entranced with the show Neal puts on. It’s all Peter can do not to smear the broken stem across Neal’s pink lips and thrust his fingers inside. Instead, he lets Neal do it all.

He lets Neal have a third strawberry, even though Neal’s being deliberately naughty and doesn’t deserve it, and then Neal turns when Peter’s hand leaves, tongue still flicking over Peter’s retreating fingers. Peter diverts to his beer this time, and Neal turns fully around. He pushes forward, nudging his way between Peter’s legs, and ducks his head to press that ever-eager tongue against Peter’s fly.

Peter’s breath catches in his throat. Neal licks a slow line up Peter’s crotch, the hard bulge there undeniable, and then looks up at Peter with half-lidded eyes and slightly flushed cheeks and the sort of face that could bring kings to their knees. Neal purrs, “Are you _sure_ you don’t need anything?”

Peter stares back at Neal for maybe two minutes.

Then he groans, “Just do it,” and tries to ignore the triumphant look on Neal’s face as he pulls Peter’s zipper down with his teeth.


End file.
